


Lorelei

by TroubleIWant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - At sea, Alternate Universe - Human, Banter, Bedsharing, Fisherman!Derek, M/M, Pining, all your favorite tropes, oil rig worker!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 08:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9428696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroubleIWant/pseuds/TroubleIWant
Summary: Derek didn't become a deep sea fisherman to make friends, but somehow that's exactly what's happened. Assuming, of course, that friendship is what's going on between him and the deeply irritating (and attractive) man he's managed to save. Surely they can last the few days 'till landfall without annoying each other to death... or falling into bed together. Right?ORDerek wasn’t entirely sure the survivor was alive when he heaved him aboard. Since spotting the lifeboat, Derek’s whole brain had been fully online, blasting panic, and even now the adrenaline made the world seem over-sharp. The man’s soft pink skin against the bright, plasticized red of his work suit seemed surreal; the length of his eyelashes jumped out, though they should have been unnoticable. The blood on his face didn’t seem to bode well for a happy ending. Neither did the way his head lolled on his neck, nor the uneven, shallow quality to his breathing.“Let’s get you below deck,” Derek muttered at the stranger, his voice scratchy with disuse.(Inspired by:this very lovely artwork)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andavs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andavs/gifts).



> Really happy to share this small fic to go along with Andavs' [very lovely artwork](http://andavs.tumblr.com/post/148884863532/)! Because really, what could be better than grouchy Derek stuck on a very small boat with an irritatingly flirtatious Stiles?
> 
> Big thanks to [Andavs](http://Andavs.tumblr.com/) and [Mad-madam-M](http://Mad-madam-M.tumblr.com/) for the original chat about Derek saving Stiles from an oil rig disaster, to Andavs for taking it a step farther and making gorgeous art about it, and Mad-madam-M for betaing this fic once I finally got a draft together. You guys rock!

* * *

 

 

Dawn broke over a placid sea, the vicious storm from the night before having blown away to fresh, clear skies. Derek was glad for it. Deep-sea fishing was hard enough work without fighting the brunt of nature’s force, and  _ Lorelei _ was a small boat. Each wave heaved her around, and when they got that big it could unsettle the most experienced sailor’s stomach.

He ate his usual breakfast on deck, a flavorless protein bar washed down with thin and bitter instant black coffee. The air was cold on his face, but not uncomfortably so, and you couldn’t beat the view. He looked out at the morning sunlight flashing on ever-shifting grey waves, his mind a meditative blank. Then, licking the last crumbs off his thumb, Derek turned to work.

He was on his own out here, which meant everything that needed doing was up to him. First, the morning’s haul had to be reeled in. There wasn’t much of it, but that was as he’d expected. Fish tended to go farther below to seek calmer currents when it stormed like it had last night. Still, he needed to process what there was and store it for the duration of his trip - still another two weeks - and doing so took time.

Next, the nets went back in the water, steel winch shrieking for want of oil. Derek automatically noted the task for next time he was below deck, adding it to his running mental list. It was easy to lose himself in the physicality of this work, the ache of his overused muscles. For days on end Derek could function at the level of habit and reaction, without any more complicated thoughts troubling him. Oil the winch. Check the net. Process the catch. Check the mooring. Stretch shoulders. Repeat.

When those nets were secured and underwater, Derek started untangling his other set. These were a finer weave, and while the nylon cords were strong, it was still given to tears. Finding any damage was another mechanical task on the list, accomplished as much by feel as vision. While he worked, he looked out across the unbroken expanse of the sea. It was afternoon already, waves gone a warmer blue than the chilly grey of the morning, sunlight more golden. Caught up in his habitual routine, he stared directly at the incongruous splotch of yellow on the water for a good, long moment before his consciousness roused enough to place the oddity.

It was a lifeboat.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek wasn’t entirely sure the survivor was alive when he heaved him aboard. He had to use all his strength to do it, straining with his forearms hooked under the man’s armpits, a boot braced on  _ Lorelei’s _ rails for leverage. The man was bloodied and unresponsive, dead weight in Derek’s arms. But, Derek noted once he’d gotten the man safely on deck, he was breathing. Since spotting the lifeboat, Derek’s whole brain had been fully online, blasting panic, and even now the adrenaline made the world seem over-sharp. The man’s soft pink skin against the bright, plasticized red of his work suit seemed surreal; the length of his eyelashes jumped out, though they should have been unnoticable. 

Derek spared a moment to wonder how this had happened, what wreck or disaster had set the man adrift on the inflatable raft, alone and unconscious. If he was the only one who’d been involved, or just the only one who made it out. If he would, given time, “make it” himself. The blood on his face didn’t seem to bode well for a happy ending. Neither did the way his head lolled on his neck, nor the uneven, shallow quality to his breathing.

“Let’s get you below deck,” Derek muttered at the stranger, his voice scratchy with disuse.

 

* * *

 

 

It was easy to get the man into his bed. Or no, Derek thought as he felt his face flush, that wasn’t the right phrase at all. He’d been able to maneuver the survivor into a safe place to allow him to further investigate what care was required. Yes, that was better.

Derek had stripped him out of the soaking work suit, underneath which he wore a thin white tee and dark boxers. The clothes were damp, but maneuvering his rangy limbs was troublesome enough in the confined space that Derek figured they’d have to do. He checked for other damage that the coverall might have hidden, but there was little to find. Something did seem off about the man’s left knee, but it wouldn’t be fatal. Given that Derek couldn’t diagnose the problem, much less fix it, he chose to leave it alone.

Having ruled out wounds needing immediate attention, Derek ducked into the bathroom across the stairwell to grab his first aid kit and a wet washcloth for the man’s face. Back in the hold, he turned his tiny desk chair around so that he could sit as he tended to him.

Derek turned his attention to cleaning off the blood painting the man’s face, sterilizing any open skin as he found it. The man didn’t even twitch at the application of alcohol, and Derek frowned. Yet as he gently wiped the man’s face, it became clear that things had looked worse than they were. Most of the blood had come from a cut across his right cheekbone, and the rest from shallower abrasions near his hairline - perhaps the cause of his unconsciousness. There was the start of a bruise forming at the cheek, and a hint of swelling, but while it might be painful once he woke up, it was nothing life-threatening. Oddly, there were splatters of black grease on the man’s face and neck, too. Derek rubbed them away along with the blood, spending a few seconds too long at the man’s jaw before realizing he was trying to wipe off a constellation of moles.

Derek’s fingers lingered. Such small, human things: a little triangle of spots he’d probably resented as a kid. He shouldn’t have, though. They just brought out the unblemished smoothness of the rest of his skin. The porcelain perfection of it seemed incongruous out here in the deep ocean where everything was rough and weathered, like  _ Lorelei _ with her salt-speckled paint and her mollusc-crusted belly. Like Derek himself, crow’s feet at his eyes and calluses on his hands. 

This man was fresh-faced and young, younger than Derek had assumed at first. Commercial fishing tended to be an older man’s game, and Derek had gotten used to being called “kid” at thirty; this man looked like he couldn’t be out of his twenties. Derek took in his pert nose, the generous cupid’s bow of his pink mouth.

And no. No, he thought, he wasn’t going to do that. He shoved the thoughts away, a familiar knee-jerk reaction to shut down even the possibility of attraction. He’d learned his lesson with Kate.

The man was as well settled as Derek could manage with the supplies at hand. There was no point in lingering. He set the med kit and washcloth down purposefully on the desk, and went back upstairs to finish his chores.

It had gotten dark by the time he came back down, shucking off his rubber waders and boots before entering the carpeted room. He checked the man’s pulse and was pleased to find it strong and steady. He was breathing better, too, had some color back in his cheeks. 

Derek stared for a second, wriggling his socked toes into the cheap carpeting. He made himself another cup of coffee and grabbed a book off the tiny shelf above his desk. He flicked on his reading light, pulled the chair back against the wall next to the cot, and settled in for a long wait. He couldn’t very well sleep on the floor. Besides, it would be cruel for the man to wake up confused and alone.

 

* * *

 

 

The small porthole to the outside world went dove grey, then brightened further with the sunrise. Derek stayed awake, and the man stayed asleep.

Derek found himself looking away from his book again and again to watch the steady swelling of breath under the man’s ribs. He thought of mermaids and selkies, of loreleis and sirens and all those beautiful myths of the sea dreamed up by lonely sailors, long dead now.

Then the man woke up, and Derek mostly thought about pitching him overboard, again. 

The waking had happened slowly and then all at once - a small crease between his brows growing to a moan, to an aborted stretch - and then as Derek hovered, unsure of what to do, the man’s eyes had flicked open. They were brown, amber where the light hit them. For a minute or so he’d been in a haze of confusion, mumbling crazy things about angels and going to heaven after all. Derek had manfully ignored his face getting a clumsy and undignified series of pats. 

After the first wave of disorientation passed, though, the stranger had seemed alright. He’d said that he was Stiles, yes-really-it's-a-nickname, and that he'd been on an oil rig that had gone down in a disastrous explosion. Where was the radio to let the authorities know he'd been found alive, he asked, and did Derek know if anyone else had made it out?

Derek had to explain that  _ Lorelei _ ’s radio was unfortunately broken and they couldn’t call anyone. As for other survivors, he hadn't even known about the disaster until now. Stiles had seemed annoyed to hear that, but he was evidently new enough to life at sea that he didn’t understand how dangerous it was to be on the open water without any way to communicate with the rest of the world. Derek felt guilt creeping in for his carelessness. He had accepted the risk for himself, but he didn’t want it for Stiles. Then again, if he’d turned around and headed to port last week when it fritzed out, he wouldn’t have seen the lifeboat in the first place.

“So there’s literally no way to get in touch with anyone? No way to call my dad?” Stiles had asked. “He's going to be freaking out.”

“I have a panic button,” Derek admitted. “But it just sends a GPS location, not any message about what the problem is. They’d come airlift us out, but they sink your ship when they take you off of it. That’s policy.” He’d have hit the switch earlier if Stiles’s injuries had been life-threatening. He’d still have done it then if Stiles asked. 

But Stiles just sighed, made a sympathetic face, and agreed that losing the ship was excessive given the circumstances. Derek was grateful, even if he hadn’t said as much.  _ Lorelei _ was his home. 

They had agreed to set a heading for the nearest port, in a small Florida town some miles east of Pensacola. Derek guessed it would take about a week and a half, given good weather. At that point, three days ago, it had sounded like a short trip. Stiles had seemed like someone Derek could get along with. Which is to say, someone who would stay quietly out of the way. 

He was not. 

“Derek!” Stiles shouted from below deck, loud and demanding. 

Derek rolled his eyes at the whining plea. He had work to do, important work, which he’d explained very clearly when he had left Stiles not fifteen minutes ago. 

“Derek!?” Stiles cried again, an edge of desperate panic to his voice.

Damn it.

Derek dropped the nets, rubber boots squeaking on the deck as he jogged for the stairs and clambered down. He usually preferred to towel off the wet gear a bit upstairs, but it would be a hassle and take too long to deal with now.

“What is it?” he asked, catching his breath in the doorway.

“This isn’t entertainment,” Stiles said plaintively, hoisting Derek’s favorite copy of  _ Anna Karenina _ and waving it at him. “This is a sleep aid.”

Derek almost dented the lintel, his hand spasmed so hard. “It’s a classic,” he finally managed. 

“Isn’t there a laptop somewhere with movies on it? You have to at least have an iPod or something, please give me your iPod.”

“I already showed you my CDs.”

Stiles rolled his eyes so hard his head followed them. “They’re all like, classical or soft jazz. I mean, seriously? Are you eighty? ‘Cause you don’t look eighty.”

“Feel free to run to the store and pick out something better,” Derek told him with a forced, toothy smile.

“It’s a violation of the Geneva Convention to keep a man in solitary confinement like this,” Stiles said, deadly serious. “This is literally torture.”

“I’m not keeping you in confinement, your knee is,” Derek growled. Stiles didn't look cowed, despite the tone and the fact that Derek had it on good authority from Laura that gave a convincing “I will end you” glare. 

“OK, so I can’t walk. Doesn’t mean I have to be solitary, though,” Stiles said, blinking innocently. “Pull up a chair, explain to me how modern music did you so wrong that you can only listen to things recorded before you were born.”

“I’m leaving.” Derek turned purposefully away and awkwardly hauled himself back up the stairs, wet boots slipping on the rung-like steps.

How in God’s name had he ended up trapped in close quarters with such an irritating stranger when he’d been 500 miles from the nearest shore? He hadn’t set off alone on a tiny deep sea fishing vessel to make new friends. In fact, he’d become a fisherman specifically because he liked peace and quiet more than he liked most people, and Stiles was not one of the exceptions to this. Stiles was a little shit.

Derek frowned at his own vehemence. True, the man was getting under his skin with near miraculous precision, but he should really try to cut Stiles a bit of slack, on account of his recent near-death experience if nothing else. Honestly, neither of them could say whether anyone else from the rig had survived, and Stiles’ family certainly thought he hadn’t. It gave him a certain pathos, as much as he tried to undercut it with his incessant, petty whining. 

Yes, Stiles was... excitable. And loud. Yes, it was a little hurtful how dismayed he had been when he learned that  _ Lorelei _ was a tiny boat with little entertainment to be had aboard. Yes, he had irritatingly confirmed five separate times that Derek was seriously the only person on the boat. But probably Stiles was just traumatized, and Derek should be patient with him. They could get along for a mere week by staying out of each other's way. Derek nodded in agreement with himself, turned to his work. 

“Derek!” Stiles screamed from below. “I’m sorry for what I said before, you don’t have to poison me! Where’s the real coffee?”

Derek squeezed and released his fists, work forgotten again as he tried to breathe through his nose. Nobody could get used to this. Stiles was the world's most irritating person, ever. All this kid did was diss his music and book choices, complain about the rations, and needle him incessantly about being a mountain man without mountains. Stiles was vocal and insistent and funny and way too good-looking. Derek didn’t like it.

“What?” Derek shouted back. “You love that I gave you real coffee? I should make more?” 

A litany of sputtering corrections poured forth from downstairs. 

Derek smirk at the reaction, and then caught himself, setting his mouth into a stern frown. He didn't like it  _ much _ , anyways.

 

* * *

 

 

Regardless of his feelings regarding his uninvited guest, there wasn’t enough work Derek could do above deck when it got dark. He had to go down eventually, and the bedroom-cum-office was such a small space that ignoring Stiles would have been not only incredibly rude but logistically difficult. Plus, for some reason, Derek was starting to find Stiles quite hard to say “no” to. 

So they ended up talking, Derek still in his work clothes and Stiles in a cozy white sweater with well-worn nubbles around the cuffs. It was Derek’s sweater. Everything Stiles wore now was, all of it just half a size too big. It was strange to see how the familiar clothes hung on another person; looser at the collar bones, still stretched across the shoulders. Derek looked down, at the red mug of coffee wrapped in Stiles’ long, knobby fingers, but that wasn’t any better.

“How'd you end up on a oil rig, anyways?” he asked, clearing his throat. “You don’t seem the type.”

“Oh, it’s a gap year,” Stiles said quickly. “I'm not going to be doing this professionally, or not for long anyways. I’m going to finish up my degree and all that, get a real job. Uh, not that working a rig isn’t real work, obviously it is. I mean, I don’t look down on anyone who does it for a living. Being at sea like this, it’s a hard life, but it’s not bad!”

Derek waved, brushing aside Stiles’ fear of having caused offense.“Same for me. Not…” Derek shook his head. “Not the  _ same  _ same, no gap year. Obviously. But, my family’s well off. I don’t have to be out here. I just… I like this. Fishing.” God, he needed to get out more. He sounded like the uncivilized hermit Stiles always accused him of being.

“Yeah, gutting fish, fun times,” Stiles said incredulously. “So, can I come up with you tomorrow and help?”

“No.” 

Stiles gave him puppy eyes, or tried. He always had a bit of mischief in his expression that he couldn’t quite bury. “Please?” he said. “I would rather hop back in the lifeboat and take my chances rowing to shore than listen to Kenny G again.”

“Kenny- You were playing _ John Coltrane, _ ” Derek choked out.

Stiles’ smirk came quick enough that Derek thought he might have been teasing. “Whatever.”

“Fine, here,” Derek said, twisting so he could root through the small box of CDs. “If you don’t like my music, try this.” With only a hair of hesitation he handed over the thin, clear case marked with black sharpie.

“Mixtape #1 from Laura, huh,” Stiles said with a quick flit of his eyes. “To Der-bear. She have anything to do with you being out here alone?”

“Not as much as… No. Not really. She’s annoying, but she’s my sister.”

“Oh!” Stiles said, light and happy. “ _ Sister _ .”

Derek swallowed. He hated the bright interest in Stiles’ eyes, just as he hated how Stiles somehow made dissing everything in Derek's life sound less like mockery and more like flirtation. As if they were both capable of that kind of quick, witty banter. And Derek hated most how he did it all while wearing Derek’s sweater, in Derek’s bed, drinking Derek’s coffee. And dissing that, too.

Stiles put the CD on and made an approving noise at the first beats. Derek didn’t know the artist for sure, but he knew it was classic punk rock of some sort - the Clash, the Pogues, that kind of stuff. All the tracks sounded the same to Derek, even if Laura claimed she had picked a wide rage of songs she specifically thought he’d like. Not that it was bad, he had to admit. As much as Derek preferred music he could read to, this wasn't bad at all. Months had passed since he listened to the CD last, and he found himself called back to the time when Laura had used to drag him out to pubs, had sung along to this kind of music when she was a few beers in, off-key and happy.

Stiles’ eyes started to droop by the time the CD had played through, and he shuffled lower into the bed. He seemed content to sleep in the clothes Derek had given him that morning, but he hadn’t been doing anything but sitting around and complaining. Derek’s shirt and pants, on the other hand, were crusty with sea-salt and sweat. He snuck off to the head to change, then stopped by the tightly packed emergency cabinet to fetch the thin sleeping bag he kept there. He laid it on the floor under Stiles’ disapproving gaze. They’d already done the “you can’t sleep on the floor/ we can’t both get in that bed” dance the last couple nights.

Derek flopped around a couple times before admitting that there was still no comfortable position to sleep down here. He needed to get a good night’s rest, but Stiles seemed to have gotten a second wind when Derek had turned off the lights. He was talking a mile a minute. Making up for lost time that afternoon, Derek supposed. The chatter was pleasant enough background noise, anyway. Stiles was blathering something about Russian classics and socialism, and his points actually sounded fairly erudite. Wait, now it was the western canon in general he was complaining about, and something about a Mr. Harris? Circumcision? Derek had lost the thread entirely.

Derek rolled over once more with half a mind to ask him about it, and fetched his elbow up hard on the leg of the desk chair. He tried and failed to smother a whimpered curse.

“Jeez, man, we can share the bed,” Stiles said in the dark. “There’s not enough space down there. Your feet are, like, scrunched up against the desk, it can’t be comfy.”

“The bed’s too small,” Derek argued, though a thrill had started to go through him at the thought of sharing.

“Well,  _ everything _ on your fucking boat is too small,” Stiles said. “You seen your shower?”

Derek bit back a laugh. “Yes, I’ve seen my shower.”

“Okay, so, small mattress better than small floor. Get up here.”

He did, against his better judgement. “Don’t make this weird,” Derek said as he scooted into the slim space Stiles was able to offer him by rolling on his side. He left unspoken the threat,  _ or I will go back on the floor. _ He wasn’t sure why that seemed like it would be a threat to Stiles, not him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles agreed in a bored drawl. There was a long pause. It was uncomfortably warm with both of them under Derek’s scratchy wool blankets, and the mattress really was too small for two full-grown men. Derek was aware of every shuffle, what with how they were de facto spooning, now. 

“So,” Stiles said, in a deep, faux-sultry voice. “Do you come here often?” 

And Derek started to laugh. He did his best to stifle it, but he was shaking with holding in the sound and he was right against Stiles so it wouldn’t have done any good if he had been able to stay silent anyways. Besides, Stiles was shaking too, his pleased huffs of laughter ruffling the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck. He had an adorable laugh.

Derek’s amusement soured at the affectionate thought, the well-worn association between letting himself care and getting him hurt lighting his neural pathways again.

He was already on the way to get rid of Stiles as fast as he could, to return him to the father he was so worried for, and the friends and the degree he’d left behind to work on the oil rig. Stiles wasn’t meant for life on an a old and rickety boat that smelled like fish and saltwater funk. He’d made that much clear.

Sobered, Derek was able to calm down and eventually fall asleep. In the morning, he briskly avoided Stiles as he grabbed a change of clothes and dressed in the head, giving himself a cursory bird bath. 

Above deck, Derek tried without much luck to get into his usual routine. He tried to push away the realization he had actually been lonely until he picked Stiles up, that he wanted Stiles to stick around and whine about the protein bars and joke about Derek’s brooding for longer than a week. Much longer. 

He growled and kicked  _ Lorelei _ ’s hull. There was no point in admitting that he didn’t hate the irksome stranger who had washed up into his life, didn't hate him at all. So what? That wouldn’t change anything. Their arrangement wasn’t forever, it wasn’t even going to last more than the few more days they had left before they made landfall.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite his hurry to leave Stiles and start working early, there wasn’t much reason for Derek to fish at this point. It wasn’t even guaranteed that Derek could unload the catch he’d already stored at the port they’d chosen. Proximity had been the only requirement in their choice, and Derek didn’t have any information about the place beyond the coordinates on his map. There was no way to know if they were even set up to process this volume of catch. Instead of setting the nets, then, he went in and double-checked  _ Lorelei’s _ course setting and current location. They were on track, just a few days sailing out if his calculations held. He wasted a bit more time mending the nets he hadn't had a chance to take care of the day he'd found Stiles. 

Eventually, Derek ran out of diversions. He took off his boots at the stairwell and went downstairs to talk with Stiles after all. He couldn’t quite put a specific topic to mind that they needed to discuss, of course. It just didn’t seem right to leave him cooped up alone because Derek had caught feelings, was all. Plus, the kid had gotten better about not yelling for Derek’s attention. It was only fair to reward good behavior.

Stiles wasn’t in the bed, though. Or at the desk. The bathroom door hung open, empty too.

“Stiles?” Derek said, idiotically. The hold was tiny; there was nowhere else for him to be hiding. A wave of panic swelled up from Derek’s chest, even though Stiles couldn’t be gone, couldn’t be far at all. It was a tiny boat, in the end. Even so, Derek sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

He rounded the wheelhouse to see Stiles leaning against  _ Lorelei’s _ starboard rails, half-mast eyes fixed on the horizon. It was hard to tell if he was squinting against the salt-spray coming off the choppy waves, or if he was trying to see out into the distance. Derek noticed his nostrils flare as took in the cold sea smell. The wind played with his hair, tossing it side to side or flattening it with each sharp gust. It wasn’t a storm yet, but it was getting there. Stiles’ broad, hunched shoulders rose with a deep breath as he tipped his face into the impending weather, eyes closing, asking for more.

Derek had never been so jealous of something inanimate.

“What are you doing out here?” he snapped, striding up into Stiles’ space. “Your leg isn’t up for holding your weight on deck, yet.”

Stiles groaned, lolling his head as he turned towards Derek. “My brain isn’t up for being this stir crazy, either. I thought my leg could pick up the slack for a bit.”

Derek glared. “You’re going to make it worse. There’s a storm coming, too. This isn’t exactly a cruise ship, when the waves get rough it’s dangerous to be up here. Think you’d swim well if you got thrown overboard?”

“I think you’d fish me out, again,” Stiles said smugly, grinning at him.

The worst part was that he was right. Derek would dive right in after him, no hesitation. Instead of admitting it, he grabbed Stiles by the bicep and maneuvered him back towards the stairs.

Stiles grumbled, but he didn’t put up much fight beyond dragging his feet. Even that, Derek realized a few steps in, wasn’t from petulance so much as exhaustion. He slowed their pace without saying anything.

Once they were back in the hold, he had to help Stiles back into the bed. The man sat heavily, unable to keep back a wince. Derek watched him rub his bad knee, a sad cast to his face. Derek couldn’t heal it for him or even give him peace of mind about his friends and family. But maybe, for a moment, he also needed things that Derek could actually give him. 

Derek heated up two meals and handed Stiles dinner, such as it was. “Might not be too tasty, but I promise it’s not poisoned, at least,” he said with a deprecating smile.

“Naw, it’s good,” Stiles said softly.  He tucked into the food happily enough that Derek half-believed him, even though he knew the stuff was objectively awful. As they ate in silence, a new uncertainty grew between them. Derek was hunched forward, over his plate, and it brought their faces as close as if they were sitting at a tiny two-top at some hole-in-the-wall joint rather than trying to share an economically designed desk.

“Sorry about sneaking upstairs,” Stiles said. He kept looking over at Derek, his glances lingering and then flicking away quickly. 

“No, I’m… it’s good to get out. I know it’s a tiny space, and you must be bored. I didn’t mean to yell, you just worried me,” Derek said, as Stiles’ tongue darted out to sweep across his lower lip. Their eyes met. Stiles’ gaze dipped to Derek’s mouth and refocused up again, eyebrows quirked like he was waiting for something.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed faintly, “guess I could use something to do.”

It was true that Derek had gotten uncivilized out on the seas, and that he’d always been awkward. But he wasn’t stupid or crazy, and he’d have to be one of the two to miss what was happening. The look on Stiles’ face was considering, head listing into a tilt as he tipped his chin every so slightly up, lips parting in invitation. 

Derek pulled back, adjusting the napkin on his lap and breaking the tension. He was forgetting himself. This thing between them, it was a relative of Stockholm Syndrome if it was anything. A consequence of being the only living people in their known worlds for a few days too long.

The moment passed, and Stiles snarked something about raw fish being a better pairing for the coffee than the protein bars, and what he wouldn’t do for a coke. Derek smiled down reflexively at his plastic plate.

That night, they slept together again in the same twin cot, except that Derek didn’t sleep. He stayed up and imagined he could hear Stiles’ breath amid the churning noise of the engine and waves. He imagined that if he wanted it bad enough he could tune into Stiles heartbeat, listen to the pulsing of his hot blood through his body. The strange part was that it made him feel happy to imagine it, even though it was just make believe.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day dawned calmer than Derek had feared. The storm he’d spotted before darkened the sky off the starboard bow, but it was far enough away that it wouldn’t affect them beyond a light rain or even a sunshower. Derek gruffly gave Stiles permission to go up on deck, rationalizing that he should start stretching the leg if it could bear weight. They both knew the stir craziness was the real issue, of course. 

Stiles looked almost obscenely grateful, and Derek had to double-check his motivations. He would probably agree to just about anything to win that look. He had always been one to fall too hard, too fast, and he knew what that sort of investment could cost. He knew how it could fuck with your judgement. Sure, Stiles seemed like he’d be different from her, but Derek knew better than to trust his own instincts, now.

“Can I shower first?” Stiles said. “I know I’ve just been sitting around, but it’s been days. I must be fucking rank.”

Derek nodded, though he didn’t think Stiles smelled particularly bad. A bit musky, perhaps, like sleep and clean sweat, but not bad. He showed Stiles how to operate the temperature, and gave him a towel and instructions to not waste the water. Stiles promised to be quick.

Derek waited on the bed, listening to the shush of water being pumped through the boat’s desalination system. Stiles was taking too long. Something might be wrong. There was a worrying thump, and Derek was on his feet, to the door in three large steps. “You alright?”

“Mhm!” Stiles said. It was high-pitched, not entirely honest. Frowning, Derek leaned his head in close to the thin folding door, trying to hear any sounds of distress. He did hear a few small gasping noises that might have been pain. He wondered if he shouldn’t press the issue, even if Stiles had claimed to be alright. If his leg had given out, he might need help and be too embarrassed to ask for it.

“Fuck,” Stiles’ voice said, a breathy half-whisper, along with a quickening wet noise that Derek’s brain suddenly identified as… oh. Right. It made sense he might want to take care of that, too. Derek blushed and backed away. 

Stiles popped out of the bathroom a few minutes later, wearing a towel clutched around his waist and nothing else. Standing, he was taller than Derek always thought of him as being. 

“Bathroom’s pretty tight,” Stiles said by way of explanation, cheeks flushed with more than the heat. “Not sure I can get these pants on without sitting. Can I use the bedroom?”

Derek nodded, trying not to look at the dark, wet curls of hair between Stiles’ pecs. He shuffled close past him to get to the stairs and up onto deck, where he took a couple deep breaths of cold sea air and tried to settle himself. Stiles was  _ annoying _ . More importantly, Stiles was temporary.

Once he was dressed, Stiles needed a bit of help up the stairs, so Derek dropped down again to lend his support. It wasn’t an excuse to touch and hang on Derek’s body, but it felt like that with Stiles tucked warm at his side. He was more muscular than Derek always thought of him as being, too. Pressed together like this it was hard to not notice.

On deck, Stiles let out a huge, sighing breath, flushing the stale air out of his lungs. Derek followed his gaze out towards the wide open sea and smiled, seeing it fresh himself. Compared to the close quarters of the ‘70s chic rooms below, the view was a miracle. 

They made their way to the rails at the back of the boat so Stiles could hold onto them rather than Derek. Somehow having Stiles with him made the lonely emptiness of the open water that much more obvious. It was as if they were the only two people on Earth. Each direction they looked showed the same wide expanse of unbroken ocean. Derek figured that Stiles would think about kissing him, if he did at all, for this reason; they were the only warm bodies for miles.

“Landfall should be maybe forty-eight hours,” Derek said, pointing behind and to their left. “We’ll start to see the coast soon, out that way.”

“Huh.” Stiles looked less than ecstatic about the news, biting his lip and frowning a bit. Derek’s lungs felt tight with all the things he wished that expression meant. He patted Stiles’ arm once and turned quickly away to go putter with the nets and winch, to double-check the mooring in case the storm did come in. While he completed his small chores, he left Stiles to enjoy the view fresh air. Soon enough, Derek found himself shouting answers back to the random questions and observations Stiles peppered the air with. What kind of fish were out here, and how big? What about whales? Had Derek ever seen a UFO?

When the time between commentary started to grow longer, Derek circled back to the stern of the boat to check on him. He took in Stiles’ tight posture, how much weight he was listing onto his good leg. “You wanna go back inside?” 

“Sure,” Stiles agreed, a hint of melancholy bleeding into even that short word.

They made their way back down the stairs again, the same three-legged shuffle with Derek’s hands tight around Stiles’ waist and Stiles’ arm around Derek’s shoulder, fingers trailing - purposefully? - on his bicep. When they got to the berth and Stiles sat himself sideways on the cot, the first thing he did was lean over and hit play on Derek’s old speakers, starting up Laura’s mixtape.

“Again?” Derek asked, amused. 

Stiles’ eyes went shifty. “Well, this one is okay. Comparatively.”

“Yeah. It’s not bad.” Derek sat next to Stiles on the bed, hip to hip. He leaned back and listened to the song, smiling. 

Stiles hummed along, only a bit off-key, and slouched back against the bulkhead, too, shoulder to shoulder with Derek. For once he seemed content to just be, without keeping up the flirty banter and overdone complaints.

“[This song](https://play.spotify.com/track/6oSq7fWLhJQQubmI0tyxAY) is why I named the boat  _ Lorelei _ ,” Derek admitted, apropos of nothing except the quiet confidence growing between them, the courage he summoned by not looking Stiles in the eye.

“Yeah? It’s kind of a sad song.”

“Mhm, but that’s not why. I’m not that melodramatic.” Derek cut a look at Stiles, and they exchanged quick smiles - Stiles’ wryly amused and Derek’s indulgent of the unspoken joke.  “It’s just that… It’s one of Laura’s favorites, but also it’s a song about wanting to go back home, you know? About missing someone. When I left to do this, I was worried I wouldn’t ever want to go back. What if I was so happy alone out here I didn’t remember that there were people waiting for me? So, that’s why I called her  _ Lorelei _ . To remind myself that in the end, you always need the people waiting back on shore.” He patted the cool bulkhead, palming the familiar curve of it. She’s treated him well, been his escape and refuge for years, but he didn’t want to forget that the sea wasn’t a replacement for family.

He glanced over to Stiles, hoping get a read on his take on what had probably been the longest sentence Derek had spoken to another person for at least six months. Surely Stiles of all people would have something to say. But it seemed, strangely, that he didn’t. He was just waiting quietly, looking at Derek like he understood, humor sparkling in his amber eyes without a hint of cruelty. Derek found a moment later that they’d been staring for too long, too close. 

He was still aware that it was a mistake, obviously he was. But he was only a man, after all. He didn’t have it in him to break a moment like this twice. Maybe Stiles just wanted him because they were the only two warm bodies for miles, but that was enough for now. Derek would take it. 

Their mouths met softly, lips wet and giving, opening easily to tongues and even a hint of teeth on Derek’s lower lip. He moaned, used his hand to tug Stiles’ mouth more firmly to his. The kiss was rougher now, sloppy and quick as both of them tried to take the lead. Stiles drew them both backwards, twisting so his head hit the pillows the right way on the bed. Derek marveled at the feeling of another body laid out under him. He felt like he’d been permeated with the taste Stiles’ mouth, that he was overheating on the friction sparking between them. 

He shifted so he was kneeling over Stiles, who gasped when Derek settled his weight onto him. It took Derek a second to realize the sound wasn’t arousal, but pain. He flinched away from the bad leg, but Stiles’ arm caught him around the neck, dragging him back down. 

“Don’t you dare stop,” he growled low, so honestly angry and demanding that Derek laughed even as he kissed him, again. He reveled in the contrast between hard ribcage under his hands and soft lips on his neck, nimble hands in his hair and the insistent hardness rutting into his thigh. He imagined again he could feel Stiles’ heartbeat, though part of him knew it was only a reflection of his own in his palms. 

Their limbs tangled with each other and the sheets and the blankets in the tiny bed. Separating out which part belonged to whom became difficult, and then unnecessary. Everything Derek needed was in this warm cocoon. His world shrank down to just the close, dim space around them:; the softness of the mattress, the gentle rocking of the boat and Stiles’ body tightly pressed against his, clothes rucked away so they could touch skin to skin. The contrast of his callused hands on Stiles’ velvety belly and hips made him tentative until Stiles tangled their fingers together and put them in his hot mouth, lapping around them. It felt like a holy blessing. 

Hazy guitars and low drums thrummed below the sweet voices coming over the speakers on the next track, lyrics exulting a moment different than the one Derek was living yet seeming to be about them after all, like the world in its entirely was contained with them here in Derek’s tiny, familiar boat.

 

* * *

 

 

Morning found them tightly wedged into the cot together, overheated and uncomfortable. There was a bony protrusion jammed into Derek’s lower back - a knee or elbow - and his right leg was asleep, pinned under Stiles’. He’d never been happier. 

The warm-skin smell of sleep mixed with the distinctive odors of sex, permeating the air so thickly that it looped back around into unnotable. Derek pushed his nose in the crook of Stiles’ neck just because he could, for now. He licked and nipped and tasted Stiles, who stretched into him as he woke, moaning obscenely. 

One hand groped up Derek’s neck and face to find the crown of his head, and when he did he tightened his grip and tugged on Derek’s hair, maneuvering them so they were kissing on the mouth, soft and sloppy, morning breath be damned. Derek though that he could get used to this, being held like something fragile with Stiles’ hands lightly on either side of his face. He felt special, chosen. It was stupidly nice, and he found himself smiling dopily into the kiss. 

He rolled onto his back and got Stiles on top of him, settled his bubble butt right on Derek’s fast-hardening dick. Now that the covers had been been moved away, he realized that they were naked. It was a happy surprise that they actually had managed to strip at some point the previous night; Derek hadn’t remembered if they’d gotten around to it before they’d come their brains out and fallen asleep in the afterglow. He murmured something to the effect of this pre-existing nudity having been a great idea.

“Agreed,” Stiles said hoarsely. “Smart us.”

The second time around, they were more coordinated around each others’ bodies, and more willing to experiment with positions beyond ones that had them draped over every inch of each other’s flesh. After cycling through quite a few of the options, Stiles finally got off between Derek’s thighs, braced on the wall that stood in for a headboard, gasping frankly implausible promises about his refractory period. Then he proceeded to give Derek the longest, best blowjob of his life. It was sloppy, enthusiastic, way noisier than Derek would have guessed he was into. In short, it was very Stiles.

Right before Derek came, Stiles pulled off, heaved himself onto Derek’s chest and kissed him hard. Derek ‘mmphed!’ in surprise. Stiles hadn’t been lying about the refractory period. Their erections pressed together between their bellies, slick with Stiles’ spit, and then Stiles had them in hand. He had wonderful hands. Derek thrust up unsteadily into the tight grip, kissed Stiles as well as he could despite the movement and distraction. Then Stiles turned his head, burying his nose behind Derek’s ear, breathing praise and encouragement and he stroked them together.

Derek came to the sound of Stiles’ voice, toes curling and thighs trembling, and moment later Stiles did too. His back bowed hard against Derek’s forearm and then melted into pliant softness.

“Ah-mmh,” Stiles moaned into his ear, satiated. They laid like that for a while, dozing a bit as the porthole brightened into full noon. Stiles trailed his fingers through Derek’s beard, down his neck, traced around his ribs. 

“You’re fucking amazing in bed, you know that?” he said. He scooted closer and nuzzled into Derek’s chest hair before continuing, conversationally, “Your coffee is still absolute shit, though.” 

“Nobody knows I found you, yet,” Derek said mildly as Stiles rolled away to wipe the dried mess off his stomach on one of their discarded shirts. “I still have time to throw you overboard.”

“Nuh-uh,” Stiles said, sing-songy and teasing. “You’re not done with me yet.”

Derek tackled him, or did something as close to a tackle as he could manage considering they were both already laying down. Stiles laughed gleefully, and then they were panting into each other’s mouths, rolling their hips together. They were well on their way to round three when Stiles broke the kiss and asked, “What’s that sound?” 

Derek stilled and listened for a moment. “Seagulls.”

“They actually sound... pretty,” Stiles said, shocked. 

Derek knew the feeling. Most people encountered the birds only as pests, lurking around areas where people might drop food, shitting on everything. It was hard to reconcile that image with the lonesome cries cutting the air outside.

“That means we’re close to land, right?” Stiles looked up at Derek, who was still braced over him on his elbows, and there was a question in his eyes. “No way this story doesn’t blow up, the whole Cast Away thing is too perfectly made for TV. You’re gonna be a real heartthrob, you know. You’re way hotter than Wilson, plus you’ve got the stoic savior thing going on.”

Derek rolled over onto his back, wincing. “I didn’t do this for publicity. None of that is… who I am. I value my privacy, and once something like that’s out there, you don’t get to take it back.” 

There was a movement to his left like Stiles was nodding. “I know.” 

“I don’t want to be famous, have my picture on TV, any of that,” Derek said.

“I know,” Stiles repeated in a very small voice.

 

* * *

 

 

The coast was visible on the horizon now, individual buildings starting to poke up out of the dark blur as they neared the harbor town.

“We should be there by this evening,” Derek said, squinting out at it.

“Late?” Stiles asked.

“Lateish.”

Stiles seemed to be gearing himself up for something. “So when we get in it’ll be dark, then. Everything’ll probably be closed,” he said quickly, turning to Derek. “I don’t have money for a hotel or anything. Don’t even have an ID. Could I, you know, stay aboard just until morning? First thing tomorrow I’ll get out of your hair, go to the police station and tell them who I am. Get ‘em to call my dad and boss and, like, undeclare me dead, probably.” He laughed nervously. “I won’t tell anyone that you’re the one who saved me, though. Okay?” 

“I won’t ask you to lie about what happened. And you can stay either way,” Derek admitted. It wouldn’t make a difference if Stiles stayed one more night with him before leaving, would it? This was going to hurt like hell regardless.

“But you said you didn’t want to do all that, right? The TV show circuit and all?”

Derek made a face. “No.”

“So, my lips are sealed.” Stiles smiled brightly, just for Derek. “It’s not a lie, anyways. Just a very small omission. You can trust me.”

Derek kissed him, couldn’t keep from doing it. It was easier than talking, anyways.

He left  _ Lorelei _ at anchor that evening, just in view of the harbor, and went down to the hold to find Stiles waiting there for the last time. He kissed him slow and sweet with Laura’s CD on loop in the background. He wished it could go back to how it had been the first time, the world shrinking down to just their little island of hushed peace, but this time he was only too aware of the demands and requirements of their real lives waiting just outside.

 

* * *

 

 

As it turned out, not one person had died in the oil rig disaster. The team had been incredibly lucky, and Stiles’ return was the cherry on top that turned a bittersweet human interest story into a full-blown media sensation. He was already famous from the various memorials and tributes to the solitary victim, but now with his miraculous return, looking how he did, being so funny and relatable on the shows and radio interviews… it was a foregone conclusion he’d become a minor celebrity.  

_ Lorelei _ was still berthed at the same port while Derek waited for his radio to be fixed. He was antsy about being discovered as the mysterious sailor who’d saved Stiles Stilinski, American hero, but true to his word Stiles had given the media too few details to work off of, and fewer accurate ones at that. Derek hadn’t been found out so far, and honestly the media had stopped looking particularly hard. He was better as a friendly ghost, he supposed. The stock photos that stood in for him were old men with grey hair and bushy beards. 

One morning at the local hole-in-the-wall coffee joint, Jerry’s, Derek saw Stiles on TV giving an interview. It was for some morning talk show, the boxy old set in the corner flattening the colors and the tone of his voice. It was probably pre-recorded, old news by now, but Derek couldn’t look away. They were showing pictures of Stiles’ reunion with his father, the other people on crew, older friends who flew out. He looked happy when they cut back to the desk shot. Somebody had styled his hair properly, given him a dress shirt that fit so much better than Derek’s old sweaters.

“And what about this mysterious fisherman who saved you?” the hostess was asking. Derek kept watching the screen despite himself.

“Oh, he’s… that’s private. He doesn’t want to get wrapped up in all this media circus. Pretty quiet guy.” Stiles looked down and away, wearing this little smile like he meant “private” for himself as well as for Derek’s fear of exposure. Like he was recalling a fond and personal memory.

“I bet it was pretty boring being stuck on such a tiny fishing boat, though! You must be so glad to get back.”

“No,” Stiles said warmly. “Or I mean, yes! Of course I’m really happy to be back and to have my family and friends know I’m alright. But the  _ Lor- _ long time on the uh, boat, it was nice, actually.” He smiled, quick and bright.

Derek was glad for the way Stiles didn’t seem to resent how his busted radio had trapped them together for more than a week, he honestly was, but he still had to turn away from the TV, eyes pricking and throat tight.

 

* * *

 

 

Once the radio was fixed, Derek had no excuse to hang around the little town any longer. Hell, he was fairly sure that Stiles had already headed back to his hometown or college or something anyway, though it was admittedly a guess. The nonstop coverage of his every move had died down over the last week. For the first time, Derek found that he wasn’t so eager to weigh anchor and return to that familiar solitude of being far from any shore. All the same, it was high time he got going.  _ Lorelei _ was fully stocked and ready for the trip he’d planned. At this point he was just dragging his feet.

He set off in the mid-afternoon, after one last trip to Jerry’s for real coffee. Stiles had been right that the instant kind left something to be desired. He motored out of the harbor and adjusted his course, then puttered around on deck straightening things that didn’t need straightening. He put it off as long as he could, but he did have to go downstairs. He’d obviously been staying there nights over the last week, but it felt different to be alone again on the open sea. It felt final. 

Derek wiped his hands on his shirt, huffing out a breath. Enough was enough. He took his time removing his boots and waders and stepped down into the hold. The bedroom still smelled like sex, no matter how he’d tried to air it out. He spared a moment to wish, eyes closed, for Stiles to appear in their familiar little den, warm and close. The whole boat was full of the ghost of him.

But then he opened his eyes and the hold wasn’t empty at all. There was a real Stiles in it. In his bed, specifically, sleeping. 

A squawky cry of surprise popped out of Derek’s mouth, and Stiles startled awake.

“Oh, hi there,” Stiles said. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, whoops, but being a celeb is exhausting apparently? And your bed is so comfy. Weirdly. Because it's still lumpy and tiny.” He stopped talking and squinted nervously at Derek. 

“Stiles?” Derek said, not at all sure he wasn’t hallucinating. “What are you doing here? We’re… the boat’s not at harbor any more! We’re out to sea!”

“I know,” Stiles said, fully awake now. “That’s on purpose. Uh, so let me explain! I figured that you would probably turn me down if I just asked, ‘please take me away from all this on your absurdly tiny little boat,’ but then I thought if I snuck on right before you left, you’d at least be stuck with me for a bit while we went back to the docks and I could convince you! So technically I am a stowaway, which in retrospect is a little pushy? But honestly, if after you hear me out you still want to be alone, then…”

“No,” Derek cut him off.

Stiles looked completely crestfallen. “But I have a, like,  sixteen point list of why it’s a good idea to take me with you. You really don’t want to hear any of it? ”

“Nope,” Derek says, grinning. “Doesn’t matter, I’ve already made my mind up. I’m not turning back. You’re hired; I don’t want to do this alone anymore.”

“Oh thank God,” Stiles wheezed. “Lead with that, next time.”

“But,” Derek said, feeling his brows knit in confusion, “you hated being trapped on this boat, you complained all the time.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Stiles said, making no bones about it. “It’s tiny and cold and a little smelly if I’m honest. And there’s no wifi, yikes. But unfortunately it’s where you are, so them’s the breaks.”

Derek felt giddy. There was no way this was his life. “You want to stay here. With me,” he said. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly,” Stiles confirmed with a quicksilver smile. “But I also brought my laptop, about 80 movies, some books that are actually fun, and an iPhone filled up with  _ good _ music. Plus about a thousand condoms and a generous bottle of lube, because as nice as frottage is I kind of want to fuck you.”

Derek blinked, trying to take this all in. “Did you bring... clothes?”

“No. Firstly, I like yours and secondly, I don’t think we’ll need to be wearing ‘em too often. Unless I’m supposed to help with fishing, which I guess probably I shouldn’t do nude.” Stiles trailed off, looking a little concerned at the possibility.

“This isn’t a fishing trip,” Dreek admitted.

Stiles blinked at him. “No? Where to then, Cap’n?”

“New England,” Derek said. “It’s where my family lives. How do you feel about meeting them?” He felt lighthearted and strange. They were going about this all backwards, but somehow it felt as straightforward and right as it had to buy  _ Lorelei _ in the first place. It was as if she had finished worked her magic, and Derek was at last ready to put his feet on solid land again.

“I would love to meet your family,” Stiles said. “Especially Laura. Need to tell her that her mixtape kept me sane.”

“Not entirely sure you are,” Derek murmured. “Isn't your dad going to be angry that you've run off to a life at sea, again?”

Stiles winced. “We talked about it, and he's actually more OK with this than he was with the oil rig. Besides, I know you've got a radio now, so I can call him every day which was, uh, the agreement we reached. Frankly, if none of this had happened, I'd still be in the rig, so I don’t know why he’s complaining.” He shrugged. “Besides, it isn’t like we’re never going to come back. Right?” The first hint of real hesitation washed over his features. 

“Of course not,” Derek assured him. “I’ve still got a place in Norwalk, about half an hour south of New Haven. I stay there in the offseason.”

“That’s about an hour from New York, huh?” Stiles said, eyes bright. “I’m getting my degree at NYU, so that works out well.”

“Yeah. I don’t think either of us want you trapped here, bitching about missing Netflix and real coffee, for longer than a couple weeks at a time.”

“Oh, don’t worry about coffee,” Stiles said, grinning. “I brought a French press!” 

Derek laughed, helplessly. “And no underwear? You're ridiculous.”

“Aww, you gonna throw me overboard after all?” Stiles asked with a smirk.

“No,” Derek confirmed, curling down onto the bed to press a chaste little kiss to Stiles’ waiting mouth. “I’m not done with you yet. Maybe won’t be, ever.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Stiles said.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's the happily ever after! Thanks very much for reading, leaving kudos (?) and commenting (???). 
> 
> Interested parties can find me on [Tumblr](http://troubleiwant.tumblr.com/) for ficlets, fanart, flailing and general Sterek-y shenanigans.
> 
> Also be sure to check out the [perfect fanart](http://andavs.tumblr.com/post/148884863532/) that this is based on! It's the best!!


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